This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.ukfrom the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition. Proofing was by JenniferAustin.

THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE

by Henry James

We had been talking about the masters who had achieved but a singlemasterpiece--the artists and poets who but once in their lives hadknown the divine afflatus and touched the high level of perfection.Our host had been showing us a charming little cabinet picture by apainter whose name we had never heard, and who, after this singlespasmodic bid for fame, had apparently relapsed into obscurity andmediocrity. There was some discussion as to the frequency of thisphenomenon; during which, I observed, H- sat silent, finishing hiscigar with a meditative air, and looking at the picture which wasbeing handed round the table. "I don't know how common a case itis," he said at last, "but I have seen it. I have known a poorfellow who painted his one masterpiece, and"--he added with a smile--"he didn't even paint that. He made his bid for fame and missed it."We all knew H- for a clever man who had seen much of men and manners,and had a great stock of reminiscences. Some one immediatelyquestioned him further, and while I was engrossed with the rapturesof my neighbour over the little picture, he was induced to tell histale. If I were to doubt whether it would bear repeating, I shouldonly have to remember how that charming woman, our hostess, who hadleft the table, ventured back in rustling rose-colour to pronounceour lingering a want of gallantry, and, finding us a listeningcircle, sank into her chair in spite of our cigars, and heard thestory out so graciously that, when the catastrophe was reached, sheglanced across at me and showed me a tear in each of her beautifuleyes.

It relates to my youth, and to Italy: two fine things! (H- began).I had arrived late in the evening at Florence, and while I finishedmy bottle of wine at supper, had fancied that, tired traveller thoughI was, I might pay the city a finer compliment than by going vulgarlyto bed. A narrow passage wandered darkly away out of the littlesquare before my hotel, and looked as if it bored into the heart ofFlorence. I followed it, and at the end of ten minutes emerged upona great piazza, filled only with the mild autumn moonlight. Oppositerose the Palazzo Vecchio, like some huge civic fortress, with thegreat bell-tower springing from its embattled verge as a mountain-pine from the edge of a cliff. At its base, in its projected shadow,gleamed certain dim sculptures which I wonderingly approached. Oneof the images, on the left of the palace door, was a magnificentcolossus, shining through the dusky air like a sentinel who has takenthe alarm. In a moment I recognised him as Michael Angelo's David.I turned with a certain relief from his sinister strength to aslender figure in bronze, stationed beneath the high light loggia,which opposes the free and elegant span of its arches to the deadmasonry of the palace; a figure supremely shapely and graceful;gentle, almost, in spite of his holding out with his light nervousarm the snaky head of the slaughtered Gorgon. His name is Perseus,and you may read his story, not in the Greek mythology, but in thememoirs of Benvenuto Cellini. Glancing from one of these finefellows to the other, I probably uttered some irrepressiblecommonplace of praise, for, as if provoked by my voice, a man rosefrom the steps of the loggia, where he had been sitting in theshadow, and addressed me in good English--a small, slim personage,clad in a sort of black velvet tunic (as it seemed), and with a massof auburn hair, which gleamed in the moonlight, escaping from alittle mediaeval birretta. In a tone of the most insinuatingdeference he asked me for my "impressions." He seemed picturesque,fantastic, slightly unreal. Hovering there in this consecratedneighbourhood, he might have passed for the genius of aesthetichospitality--if the genius of aesthetic hospitality were not commonlysome shabby little custode, flourishing a calico pocket-handkerchiefand openly resentful of the divided franc. This analogy was madenone the less complete by the brilliant tirade with which he greetedmy embarrassed silence.

"I have known Florence long, sir, but I have never known her solovely as tonight. It's as if the ghosts of her past were abroad inthe empty streets. The present is sleeping; the past hovers about uslike a dream made visible. Fancy the old Florentines strolling up incouples to pass judgment on the last performance of Michael, ofBenvenuto! We should come in for a precious lesson if we mightoverhear what they say. The plainest burgher of them, in his cap andgown, had a taste in the matter! That was the prime of art, sir.The sun stood high in heaven, and his broad and equal blaze made thedarkest places bright and the dullest eyes clear. We live in theevening of time! We grope in the gray dusk, carrying each our poorlittle taper of selfish and painful wisdom, holding it up to thegreat models and to the dim idea, and seeing nothing but overwhelminggreatness and dimness. The days of illumination are gone! But doyou know I fancy--I fancy"--and he grew suddenly almost familiar inthis visionary fervour--"I fancy the light of that time rests upon ushere for an hour! I have never seen the David so grand, the Perseusso fair! Even the inferior productions of John of Bologna and ofBaccio Bandinelli seem to realise the artist's dream. I feel as ifthe moonlit air were charged with the secrets of the masters, and asif, standing here in religious attention, we might--we might witnessa revelation!" Perceiving at this moment, I suppose, my haltingcomprehension reflected in my puzzled face, this interestingrhapsodist paused and blushed. Then with a melancholy smile, "Youthink me a moonstruck charlatan, I suppose. It's not my habit tobang about the piazza and pounce upon innocent tourists. Buttonight, I confess, I am under the charm. And then, somehow, Ifancied you too were an artist!"

"I am not an artist, I am sorry to say, as you must understand theterm. But pray make no apologies. I am also under the charm; youreloquent remarks have only deepened it."

"If you are not an artist you are worthy to be one!" he rejoined,with an expressive smile. "A young man who arrives at Florence latein the evening, and, instead of going prosaically to bed, or hangingover the traveller's book at his hotel, walks forth without loss oftime to pay his devoirs to the beautiful, is a young man after my ownheart!"

The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American! He musthave been, to take the picturesque so prodigiously to heart. "Nonethe less so, I trust," I answered, "if the young man is a sordid NewYorker."

"New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!" he answered,urbanely.

For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight reverie mere Yankeeenterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush whohad posted himself here to extort an "order" from a saunteringtourist? But I was not called to defend myself. A great brazen notebroke suddenly from the far-off summit of the bell-tower above us,and sounded the first stroke of midnight. My companion started,apologised for detaining me, and prepared to retire. But he seemedto offer so lively a promise of further entertainment that I wasindisposed to part with him, and suggested that we should strollhomeward together. He cordially assented; so we turned out of thePiazza, passed down before the statued arcade of the Uffizi, and cameout upon the Arno. What course we took I hardly remember, but weroamed slowly about for an hour, my companion delivering by snatchesa sort of moon-touched aesthetic lecture. I listened in puzzledfascination, and wondered who the deuce he was. He confessed with amelancholy but all-respectful head-shake to his American origin.

"We are the disinherited of Art!" he cried. "We are condemned to besuperficial! We are excluded from the magic circle. The soil ofAmerican perception is a poor little barren artificial deposit. Yes!we are wedded to imperfection. An American, to excel, has just tentimes as much to learn as a European. We lack the deeper sense. Wehave neither taste, nor tact, nor power. How should we have them?Our crude and garish climate, our silent past, our deafening present,the constant pressure about us of unlovely circumstance, are as voidof all that nourishes and prompts and inspires the artist, as my sadheart is void of bitterness in saying so! We poor aspirants mustlive in perpetual exile."

"You seem fairly at home in exile," I answered, "and Florence seemsto me a very pretty Siberia. But do you know my own thought?Nothing is so idle as to talk about our want of a nutritive soil, ofopportunity, of inspiration, and all the rest of it. The worthy partis to do something fine! There is no law in our gloriousConstitution against that. Invent, create, achieve! No matter ifyou have to study fifty times as much as one of these! What else areyou an artist for? Be you our Moses," I added, laughing, and layingmy hand on his shoulder, "and lead us out of the house of bondage!"

"Golden words--golden words, young man!" he cried, with a tendersmile. "'Invent, create, achieve!' Yes, that's our business; I knowit well. Don't take me, in Heaven's name, for one of your barrencomplainers--impotent cynics who have neither talent nor faith! I amat work!"--and he glanced about him and lowered his voice as if thiswere a quite peculiar secret--"I'm at work night and day. I haveundertaken a CREATION! I am no Moses; I am only a poor patientartist; but it would be a fine thing if I were to cause some slenderstream of beauty to flow in our thirsty land! Don't think me amonster of conceit," he went on, as he saw me smile at the aviditywith which he adopted my illustration; "I confess that I am in one ofthose moods when great things seem possible! This is one of mynervous nights--I dream waking! When the south wind blows overFlorence at midnight it seems to coax the soul from all the fairthings locked away in her churches and galleries; it comes into myown little studio with the moonlight, and sets my heart beating toodeeply for rest. You see I am always adding a thought to myconception! This evening I felt that I couldn't sleep unless I hadcommuned with the genius of Buonarotti!"

He seemed deeply versed in local history and tradition, and heexpatiated con amore on the charms of Florence. I gathered that hewas an old resident, and that he had taken the lovely city into hisheart. "I owe her everything," he declared. "It's only since I camehere that I have really lived, intellectually. One by one, allprofane desires, all mere worldly aims, have dropped away from me,and left me nothing but my pencil, my little note-book" (and hetapped his breast-pocket), "and the worship of the pure masters--those who were pure because they were innocent, and those who werepure because they were strong!"

"And have you been very productive all this time?" I askedsympathetically.

He was silent a while before replying. "Not in the vulgar sense!" hesaid at last. "I have chosen never to manifest myself byimperfection. The good in every performance I have re-absorbed intothe generative force of new creations; the bad--there is alwaysplenty of that--I have religiously destroyed. I may say, with somesatisfaction, that I have not added a mite to the rubbish of theworld. As a proof of my conscientiousness and he stopped short, andeyed me with extraordinary candour, as if the proof were to beoverwhelming--"I have never sold a picture! 'At least no merchanttraffics in my heart!' Do you remember that divine line in Browning?My little studio has never been profaned by superficial, feverish,mercenary work. It's a temple of labour, but of leisure! Art islong. If we work for ourselves, of course we must hurry. If we workfor her, we must often pause. She can wait!"

This had brought us to my hotel door, somewhat to my relief, Iconfess, for I had begun to feel unequal to the society of a geniusof this heroic strain. I left him, however, not without expressing afriendly hope that we should meet again. The next morning mycuriosity had not abated; I was anxious to see him by commondaylight. I counted upon meeting him in one of the many pictorialhaunts of Florence, and I was gratified without delay. I found himin the course of the morning in the Tribune of the Uffizi--thatlittle treasure-chamber of world-famous things. He had turned hisback on the Venus de' Medici, and with his arms resting on the rail-mug which protects the pictures, and his head buried in his hands, hewas lost in the contemplation of that superb triptych of AndreaMantegna--a work which has neither the material splendour nor thecommanding force of some of its neighbours, but which, glowing therewith the loveliness of patient labour, suits possibly a more constantneed of the soul. I looked at the picture for some time over hisshoulder; at last, with a heavy sigh, he turned away and our eyesmet. As he recognised me a deep blush rose to his face; he fancied,perhaps, that he had made a fool of himself overnight. But I offeredhim my hand with a friendliness which assured him I was not ascoffer. I knew him by his ardent chevelure; otherwise he was muchaltered. His midnight mood was over, and he looked as haggard as anactor by daylight. He was far older than I had supposed, and he hadless bravery of costume and gesture. He seemed the quiet, poor,patient artist he had proclaimed himself, and the fact that he hadnever sold a picture was more obvious than glorious. His velvet coatwas threadbare, and his short slouched hat, of an antique pattern,revealed a rustiness which marked it an "original," and not one ofthe picturesque reproductions which brethren of his craft affect.His eye was mild and heavy, and his expression singularly gentle andacquiescent; the more so for a certain pallid leanness of visage,which I hardly knew whether to refer to the consuming fire of geniusor to a meagre diet. A very little talk, however, cleared his browand brought back his eloquence.

"And this is your first visit to these enchanted halls?" he cried."Happy, thrice happy youth!" And taking me by the arm, he prepared tolead me to each of the pre-eminent works in turn and show me thecream of the gallery. But before we left the Mantegna he pressed myarm and gave it a loving look. "HE was not in a hurry," he murmured."He knew nothing of "raw Haste, half-sister to Delay!" How sound acritic my friend was I am unable to say, but he was an extremelyamusing one; overflowing with opinions, theories, and sympathies,with disquisition and gossip and anecdote. He was a shade toosentimental for my own sympathies, and I fancied he was rather toofond of superfine discriminations and of discovering subtleintentions in shallow places. At moments, too, he plunged into thesea of metaphysics, and floundered a while in waters too deep forintellectual security. But his abounding knowledge and happyjudgment told a touching story of long attentive hours in thisworshipful company; there was a reproach to my wasteful saunteringsin so devoted a culture of opportunity. "There are two moods," Iremember his saying, "in which we may walk through galleries--thecritical and the ideal. They seize us at their pleasure, and we cannever tell which is to take its turn. The critical mood, oddly, isthe genial one, the friendly, the condescending. It relishes thepretty trivialities of art, its vulgar cleverness, its consciousgraces. It has a kindly greeting for anything which looks as if,according to his light, the painter had enjoyed doing it--for thelittle Dutch cabbages and kettles, for the taper fingers and breezymantles of late-coming Madonnas, for the little blue-hilled,pastoral, sceptical Italian landscapes. Then there are the days offierce, fastidious longing--solemn church feasts of the intellect--when all vulgar effort and all petty success is a weariness, andeverything but the best--the best of the best--disgusts. In thesehours we are relentless aristocrats of taste. We will not takeMichael Angelo for granted, we will not swallow Raphael whole!"

The gallery of the Uffizi is not only rich in its possessions, butpeculiarly fortunate in that fine architectural accident, as one maycall it, which unites it--with the breadth of river and city betweenthem--to those princely chambers of the Pitti Palace. The Louvre andthe Vatican hardly give you such a sense of sustained inclosure asthose long passages projected over street and stream to establish asort of inviolate transition between the two palaces of art. Wepassed along the gallery in which those precious drawings by eminenthands hang chaste and gray above the swirl and murmur of the yellowArno, and reached the ducal saloons of the Pitti. Ducal as they are,it must be confessed that they are imperfect as show-rooms, and that,with their deep-set windows and their massive mouldings, it is rathera broken light that reaches the pictured walls. But here themasterpieces hang thick, and you seem to see them in a luminousatmosphere of their own. And the great saloons, with their superbdim ceilings, their outer wall in splendid shadow, and the sombreopposite glow of mellow canvas and dusky gilding, make, themselves,almost as fine a picture as the Titians and Raphaels they imperfectlyreveal. We lingered briefly before many a Raphael and Titian; but Isaw my friend was impatient, and I suffered him at last to lead medirectly to the goal of our journey--the most tenderly fair ofRaphael's virgins, the Madonna in the Chair. Of all the finepictures of the world, it seemed to me this is the one with whichcriticism has least to do. None betrays less effort, less of themechanism of success and of the irrepressible discord betweenconception and result, which shows dimly in so many consummate works.Graceful, human, near to our sympathies as it is, it has nothing ofmanner, of method, nothing, almost, of style; it blooms there inrounded softness, as instinct with harmony as if it were an immediateexhalation of genius. The figure melts away the spectator's mindinto a sort of passionate tenderness which he knows not whether hehas given to heavenly purity or to earthly charm. He is intoxicatedwith the fragrance of the tenderest blossom of maternity that everbloomed on earth.

"That's what I call a fine picture," said my companion, after we hadgazed a while in silence. "I have a right to say so, for I havecopied it so often and so carefully that I could repeat it now withmy eyes shut. Other works are of Raphael: this IS Raphael himself.Others you can praise, you can qualify, you can measure, explain,account for: this you can only love and admire. I don't know inwhat seeming he walked among men while this divine mood was upon him;but after it, surely, he could do nothing but die; this world hadnothing more to teach him. Think of it a while, my friend, and youwill admit that I am not raving. Think of his seeing that spotlessimage, not for a moment, for a day, in a happy dream, or a restlessfever-fit; not as a poet in a five minutes' frenzy--time to snatchhis phrase and scribble his immortal stanza; but for days together,while the slow labour of the brush went on, while the foul vapours oflife interposed, and the fancy ached with tension, fixed, radiant,distinct, as we see it now! What a master, certainly! But ah! whata seer!"

"Don't you imagine," I answered, "that he had a model, and that somepretty young woman--"

"As pretty a young woman as you please! It doesn't diminish themiracle! He took his hint, of course, and the young woman, possibly,sat smiling before his canvas. But, meanwhile, the painter's ideahad taken wings. No lovely human outline could charm it to vulgarfact. He saw the fair form made perfect; he rose to the visionwithout tremor, without effort of wing; he communed with it face toface, and resolved into finer and lovelier truth the purity whichcompletes it as the fragrance completes the rose. That's what theycall idealism; the word's vastly abused, but the thing is good. It'smy own creed, at any rate. Lovely Madonna, model at once and muse, Icall you to witness that I too am an idealist!"

"An idealist, then," I said, half jocosely, wishing to provoke him tofurther utterance, "is a gentleman who says to Nature in the personof a beautiful girl, 'Go to, you are all wrong! Your fine is coarse,your bright is dim, your grace is gaucherie. This is the way youshould have done it!' Is not the chance against him?"

He turned upon me almost angrily, but perceiving the genial savour ofmy sarcasm, he smiled gravely. "Look at that picture," he said, "andcease your irreverent mockery! Idealism is THAT! There's noexplaining it; one must feel the flame! It says nothing to Nature,or to any beautiful girl, that they will not both forgive! It saysto the fair woman, 'Accept me as your artist friend, lend me yourbeautiful face, trust me, help me, and your eyes shall be half mymasterpiece!' No one so loves and respects the rich realities ofnature as the artist whose imagination caresses and flatters them.He knows what a fact may hold (whether Raphael knew, you may judge byhis portrait, behind us there, of Tommaso Inghirami); bad his fancyhovers above it, as Anal hovered above the sleeping prince. There isonly one Raphael, bad an artist may still be an artist. As I saidlast night, the days of illumination are gone; visions are rare; wehave to look long to see them. But in meditation we may stillcultivate the ideal; round it, smooth it, perfect it. The result--the result," (here his voice faltered suddenly, and he fixed his eyesfor a moment on the picture; when they met my own again they werefull of tears)--"the result may be less than this; but still it maybe good, it may be GREAT!" he cried with vehemence. "It may hangsomewhere, in after years, in goodly company, and keep the artist'smemory warm. Think of being known to mankind after some such fashionas this! of hanging here through the slow centuries in the gaze of analtered world; living on and on in the cunning of an eye and handthat are part of the dust of ages, a delight and a law to remotegenerations; making beauty a force and purity an example!"

"Heaven forbid," I said, smiling, "that I should take the wind out ofyour sails! But doesn't it occur to you that, besides being strongin his genius, Raphael was happy in a certain good faith of which wehave lost the trick? There are people, I know, who deny that hisspotless Madonnas are anything more than pretty blondes of thatperiod enhanced by the Raphaelesque touch, which they declare is aprofane touch. Be that as it may, people's religious and aestheticneeds went arm in arm, and there was, as I may say, a demand for theBlessed Virgin, visible and adorable, which must have given firmnessto the artist's hand. I am afraid there is no demand now."

My companion seemed painfully puzzled; he shivered, as it were, inthis chilling blast of scepticism. Then shaking his head withsublime confidence--"There is always a demand!" he cried; "thatineffable type is one of the eternal needs of man's heart; but pioussouls long for it in silence, almost in shame. Let it appear, andtheir faith grows brave. How SHOULD it appear in this corruptgeneration? It cannot be made to order. It could, indeed, when theorder came, trumpet-toned, from the lips of the Church herself, andwas addressed to genius panting with inspiration. But it can springnow only from the soil of passionate labour and culture. Do youreally fancy that while, from time to time, a man of completeartistic vision is born into the world, that image can perish? Theman who paints it has painted everything. The subject admits ofevery perfection--form, colour, expression, composition. It can beas simple as you please, and yet as rich; as broad and pure, and yetas full of delicate detail. Think of the chance for flesh in thelittle naked, nestling child, irradiating divinity; of the chance fordrapery in the chaste and ample garment of the mother! think of thegreat story you compress into that simple theme! Think, above all,of the mother's face and its ineffable suggestiveness, of the mingledburden of joy and trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, and theworship turned to far-seeing pity! Then look at it all in perfectline and lovely colour, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!"

"Anch' io son pittore!" I cried. "Unless I am mistaken, you have amasterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in, you will do morethan Raphael himself did. Let me know when your picture is finished,and wherever in the wide world I may be, I will post back to Florenceand pay my respects to--the MADONNA OF THE FUTURE!"

He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half ofresignation. "I don't often mention my picture by name. I detestthis modem custom of premature publicity. A great work needssilence, privacy, mystery even. And then, do you know, people are socruel, so frivolous, so unable to imagine a man's wishing to paint aMadonna at this time of day, that I have been laughed at--laughed at,sir!" and his blush deepened to crimson. "I don't know what hasprompted me to be so frank and trustful with you. You look as if youwouldn't laugh at me. My dear young man"--and he laid his hand on myarm--"I am worthy of respect. Whatever my talents may be, I amhonest. There is nothing grotesque in a pure ambition, or in a lifedevoted to it."

There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone thatfurther questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated opportunity toask them, however, for after this we spent much time together. Dailyfor a fortnight, we met by appointment, to see the sights. He knewthe city so well, he had strolled and lounged so often through itsstreets and churches and galleries, he was so deeply versed in itsgreater and lesser memories, so imbued with the local genius, that hewas an altogether ideal valet de place, and I was glad enough toleave my Murray at home, and gather facts and opinions alike from hisgossiping commentary. He talked of Florence like a lover, andadmitted that it was a very old affair; he had lost his heart to herat first sight. "It's the fashion to talk of all cities asfeminine," he said, "but, as a rule, it's a monstrous mistake. IsFlorence of the same sex as New York, as Chicago? She is the soleperfect lady of them all; one feels towards her as a lad in his teensfeels to some beautiful older woman with a 'history.' She fills youwith a sort of aspiring gallantry." This disinterested passionseemed to stand my friend in stead of the common social ties; he leda lonely life, and cared for nothing but his work. I was dulyflattered by his having taken my frivolous self into his favour, andby his generous sacrifice of precious hours to my society. We spentmany of these hours among those early paintings in which Florence isso rich, returning ever and anon, with restless sympathies, to wonderwhether these tender blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance andsavour more precious than the full-fruited knowledge of the laterworks. We lingered often in the sepulchral chapel of San Lorenzo,and watched Michael Angelo's dim-visaged warrior sitting there likesome awful Genius of Doubt and brooding behind his eternal mask uponthe mysteries of life. We stood more than once in the little conventchambers where Fra Angelico wrought as if an angel indeed had heldhis hand, and gathered that sense of scattered dews and early bird-notes which makes an hour among his relics seem like a morning strollin some monkish garden. We did all this and much more--wandered intodark chapels, damp courts, and dusty palace-rooms, in quest oflingering hints of fresco and lurking treasures of carving.

I was more and more impressed with my companion's remarkablesingleness of purpose. Everything was a pretext for some wildlyidealistic rhapsody or reverie. Nothing could be seen or said thatdid not lead him sooner or later to a glowing discourse on the true,the beautiful, and the good. If my friend was not a genius, he wascertainly a monomaniac; and I found as great a fascination inwatching the odd lights and shades of his character as if he had beena creature from another planet. He seemed, indeed, to know verylittle of this one, and lived and moved altogether in his own littleprovince of art. A creature more unsullied by the world it isimpossible to conceive, and I often thought it a flaw in his artisticcharacter that he had not a harmless vice or two. It amused megreatly at times to think that he was of our shrewd Yankee race; but,after all, there could be no better token of his American origin thanthis high aesthetic fever. The very heat of his devotion was a signof conversion; those born to European opportunity manage better toreconcile enthusiasm with comfort. He had, moreover, all our nativemistrust for intellectual discretion, and our native relish forsonorous superlatives. As a critic he was very much more generousthan just, and his mildest terms of approbation were "stupendous,""transcendent," and "incomparable." The small change of admirationseemed to him no coin for a gentleman to handle; and yet, frank as hewas intellectually, he was personally altogether a mystery. Hisprofessions, somehow, were all half-professions, and his allusions tohis work and circumstances left something dimly ambiguous in thebackground. He was modest and proud, and never spoke of his domesticmatters. He was evidently poor; yet he must have had some slenderindependence, since he could afford to make so merry over the factthat his culture of ideal beauty had never brought him a penny. Hispoverty, I supposed, was his motive for neither inviting me to hislodging nor mentioning its whereabouts. We met either in some publicplace or at my hotel, where I entertained him as freely as I mightwithout appearing to be prompted by charity. He seemed alwayshungry, and this was his nearest approach to human grossness. I madea point of asking no impertinent questions, but, each time we met, Iventured to make some respectful allusion to the magnum opus, toinquire, as it were, as to its health and progress. "We are gettingon, with the Lord's help," he would say, with a grave smile. "We aredoing well. You see, I have the grand advantage that I lose no time.These hours I spend with you are pure profit. They are SUGGESTIVE!Just as the truly religious soul is always at worship, the genuineartist is always in labour. He takes his property wherever he findsit, and learns some precious secret from every object that stands upin the light. If you but knew the rapture of observation! I gatherwith every glance some hint for light, for colour, or relief! When Iget home, I pour out my treasures into the lap of toy Madonna. Oh, Iam not idle! Nulla dies sine linea."

I was introduced in Florence to an American lady whose drawing-roomhad long formed an attractive place of reunion for the foreignresidents. She lived on a fourth floor, and she was not rich; butshe offered her visitors very good tea, little cakes at option, andconversation not quite to match. Her conversation had mainly anaesthetic flavour, for Mrs. Coventry was famously ''artistic." Herapartment was a sort of Pitti Palace au petit pied. She possessed"early masters" by the dozen--a cluster of Peruginos in her dining-room, a Giotto in her boudoir, an Andrea del Sarto over her drawing-room chimney-piece. Surrounded by these treasures, and byinnumerable bronzes, mosaics, majolica dishes, and little worm-eatendiptychs covered with angular saints on gilded backgrounds, ourhostess enjoyed the dignity of a sort of high-priestess of the arts.She always wore on her bosom a huge miniature copy of the Madonnadella Seggiola. Gaining her ear quietly one evening, I asked herwhether she knew that remarkable man, Mr. Theobald.

"Know him!" she exclaimed; "know poor Theobald! All Florence knowshim, his flame-coloured locks, his black velvet coat, hisinterminable harangues on the beautiful, and his wondrous Madonnathat mortal eye has never seen, and that mortal patience has quitegiven up expecting."

"Really," I cried, "you don't believe in his Madonna?"

"My dear ingenuous youth," rejoined my shrewd friend, "has he made aconvert of you? Well, we all believed in him once; he came down uponFlorence and took the town by storm. Another Raphael, at the veryleast, had been born among men, and the poor dear United States wereto have the credit of him. Hadn't he the very hair of Raphaelflowing down on his shoulders? The hair, alas, but not the head! Weswallowed him whole, however; we hung upon his lips and proclaimedhis genius on the house-tops. The women were all dying to sit to himfor their portraits and be made immortal, like Leonardo's Joconde.We decided that his manner was a good deal like Leonardo's--mysterious, and inscrutable, and fascinating. Mysterious itcertainly was; mystery was the beginning and the end of it. Themonths passed by, and the miracle hung fire; our master neverproduced his masterpiece. He passed hours in the galleries andchurches, posturing, musing, and gazing; he talked more than everabout the beautiful, but he never put brush to canvas. We had allsubscribed, as it were, to the great performance; but as it nevercame off people began to ask for their money again. I was one of thelast of the faithful; I carried devotion so far as to sit to him formy head. If you could have seen the horrible creature he made of me,you would admit that even a woman with no more vanity than will tieher bonnet straight must have cooled off then. The man didn't knowthe very alphabet of drawing! His strong point, he intimated, washis sentiment; but is it a consolation, when one has been painted afright, to know it has been done with peculiar gusto? One by one, Iconfess, we fell away from the faith, and Mr. Theobald didn't lifthis little finger to preserve us. At the first hint that we weretired of waiting, and that we should like the show to begin, he wasoff in a huff. 'Great work requires time, contemplation, privacy,mystery! O ye of little faith!' We answered that we didn't insiston a great work; that the five-act tragedy might come at hisconvenience; that we merely asked for something to keep us fromyawning, some inexpensive little lever de rideau. Hereupon the poorman took his stand as a genius misconceived and persecuted, an amemeconnue, and washed his hands of us from that hour! No, I believehe does me the honour to consider me the head and front of theconspiracy formed to nip his glory in the bud--a bud that has takentwenty years to blossom. Ask him if he knows me, and he will tellyou I am a horribly ugly old woman, who has vowed his destructionbecause he won't paint her portrait as a pendant to Titian's Flora.I fancy that since then he has had none but chance followers,innocent strangers like yourself, who have taken him at his word.The mountain is still in labour; I have not heard that the mouse hasbeen born. I pass him once in a while in the galleries, and he fixeshis great dark eyes on me with a sublimity of indifference, as if Iwere a bad copy of a Sassoferrato! It is a long time ago now that Iheard that he was making studies for a Madonna who was to be a resumeof all the other Madonnas of the Italian school--like that antiqueVenus who borrowed a nose from one great image and an ankle fromanother. It's certainly a masterly idea. The parts may be fine, butwhen I think of my unhappy portrait I tremble for the whole. He hascommunicated this striking idea under the pledge of solemn secrecy tofifty chosen spirits, to every one he has ever been able to button-hole for five minutes. I suppose he wants to get an order for it,and he is not to blame; for Heaven knows how he lives. I see by yourblush," my hostess frankly continued, "that you have been honouredwith his confidence. You needn't be ashamed, my dear young man; aman of your age is none the worse for a certain generous credulity.Only allow me to give you a word of advice: keep your credulity outof your pockets! Don't pay for the picture till it's delivered. Youhave not been treated to a peep at it, I imagine! No more have yourfifty predecessors in the faith. There are people who doubt whetherthere is any picture to be seen. I fancy, myself, that if one wereto get into his studio, one would find something very like thepicture in that tale of Balzac's--a mere mass of incoherent scratchesand daubs, a jumble of dead paint!"

I listened to this pungent recital in silent wonder. It had apainfully plausible sound, and was not inconsistent with certain shysuspicions of my own. My hostess was not only a clever woman, butpresumably a generous one. I determined to let my judgment wait uponevents. Possibly she was right; but if she was wrong, she wascruelly wrong! Her version of my friend's eccentricities made meimpatient to see him again and examine him in the light of publicopinion. On our next meeting I immediately asked him if he knew Mrs.Coventry. He laid his hand on my arm and gave me a sad smile. "Hasshe taxed YOUR gallantry at last?" he asked. "She's a foolish woman.She's frivolous and heartless, and she pretends to be serious andkind. She prattles about Giotto's second manner and VittoriaColonna's liaison with 'Michael'--one would think that Michael livedacross the way and was expected in to take a hand at whist--but sheknows as little about art, and about the conditions of production, asI know about Buddhism. She profanes sacred words," he added morevehemently, after a pause. "She cares for you only as some one toband teacups in that horrible mendacious little parlour of hers, withits trumpery Peruginos! If you can't dash off a new picture everythree days, and let her hand it round among her guests, she tellsthem in plain English that you are an impostor!"

This attempt of mine to test Mrs. Coventry's accuracy was made in thecourse of a late afternoon walk to the quiet old church of SanMiniato, on one of the hill-tops which directly overlook the city,from whose gates you are guided to it by a stony and cypress-borderedwalk, which seems a very fitting avenue to a shrine. No spot is morepropitious to lingering repose than the broad terrace in front of thechurch, where, lounging against the parapet, you may glance in slowalternation from the black and yellow marbles of the church facade,seamed and cracked with time and wind-sown with a tender flora of itsown, down to the full domes and slender towers of Florence and overto the blue sweep of the wide-mouthed cup of mountains into whosehollow the little treasure city has been dropped. I had proposed, asa diversion from the painful memories evoked by Mrs. Coventry's name,that Theobald should go with me the next evening to the opera, wheresome rarely-played work was to be given. He declined, as I halfexpected, for I observed that he regularly kept his evenings inreserve, and never alluded to his manner of passing them. "You havereminded me before," I said, smiling, "of that charming speech of theFlorentine painter in Alfred de Musset's 'Lorenzaccio': 'I do noharm to anyone. I pass my days in my studio, On Sunday I go to theAnnunziata or to Santa Mario; the monks think I have a voice; theydress me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share in thechoruses; sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only times Igo into public. In the evening, I visit my sweetheart; when thenight is fine, we pass it on her balcony.' I don't know whether youhave a sweetheart, or whether she has a balcony. But if you are sohappy, it's certainly better than trying to find a charm in a third-rate prima donna."

He made no immediate response, but at last he turned to me solemnly."Can you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent eyes?"

"Really," I said, "I don't pretend to be sheepish, but I should besorry to think I was impudent." And I asked him what in the world hemeant. When at last I had assured him that I could undertake totemper admiration with respect, he informed me, with an air ofreligious mystery, that it was in his power to introduce me to themost beautiful woman in Italy--"A beauty with a soul!"

"Upon my word," I cried, "you are extremely fortunate, and that is amost attractive description."

"This woman's beauty," he went on, "is a lesson, a morality, a poem!It's my daily study."

Of course, after this, I lost no time in reminding him of what,before we parted, had taken the shape of a promise. "I feelsomehow," he had said, "as if it were a sort of violation of thatprivacy in which I have always contemplated her beauty. This isfriendship, my friend. No hint of her existence has ever fallen frommy lips. But with too great a familiarity we are apt to lose a senseof the real value of things, and you perhaps will throw some newlight upon it and offer a fresher interpretation."

We went accordingly by appointment to a certain ancient house in theheart of Florence--the precinct of the Mercato Vecchio--and climbed adark, steep staircase, to the very summit of the edifice. Theobald'sbeauty seemed as loftily exalted above the line of common vision ashis artistic ideal was lifted above the usual practice of men. Hepassed without knocking into the dark vestibule of a small apartment,and, flinging open an inner door, ushered me into a small saloon.The room seemed mean and sombre, though I caught a glimpse of whitecurtains swaying gently at an open window. At a table, near a lamp,sat a woman dressed in black, working at a piece of embroidery. AsTheobald entered she looked up calmly, with a smile; but seeing meshe made a movement of surprise, and rose with a kind of statelygrace. Theobald stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it, withan indescribable air of immemorial usage. As he bent his head shelooked at me askance, and I thought she blushed.

"Behold the Serafina!" said Theobald, frankly, waving me forward."This is a friend, and a lover of the arts," he added, introducingme. I received a smile, a curtsey, and a request to be seated.

The most beautiful woman in Italy was a person of a generous Italiantype and of a great simplicity of demeanour. Seated again at herlamp, with her embroidery, she seemed to have nothing whatever tosay. Theobald, bending towards her in a sort of Platonic ecstasy,asked her a dozen paternally tender questions as to her health, herstate of mind, her occupations, and the progress of her embroidery,which he examined minutely and summoned me to admire. It was someportion of an ecclesiastical vestment--yellow satin wrought with anelaborate design of silver and gold. She made answer in a full richvoice, but with a brevity which I hesitated whether to attribute tonative reserve or to the profane constraint of my presence. She hadbeen that morning to confession; she had also been to market, and hadbought a chicken for dinner. She felt very happy; she had nothing tocomplain of except that the people for whom she was making hervestment, and who furnished her materials, should be willing to putsuch rotten silver thread into the garment, as one might say, of theLord. From time to time, as she took her slow stitches, she raisedher eyes and covered me with a glance which seemed at first to denotea placid curiosity, but in which, as I saw it repeated, I thought Iperceived the dim glimmer of an attempt to establish an understandingwith me at the expense of our companion. Meanwhile, as mindful aspossible of Theobald's injunction of reverence, I considered thelady's personal claims to the fine compliment he had paid her.

That she was indeed a beautiful woman I perceived, after recoveringfrom the surprise of finding her without the freshness of youth. Herbeauty was of a sort which, in losing youth, loses little of itsessential charm, expressed for the most part as it was in form andstructure, and, as Theobald would have said, in "composition." Shewas broad and ample, low-browed and large-eyed, dark and pale. Herthick brown hair hung low beside her cheek and ear, and seemed todrape her head with a covering as chaste and formal as the veil of anun. The poise and carriage of her head were admirably free andnoble, and they were the more effective that their freedom was atmoments discreetly corrected by a little sanctimonious droop, whichharmonised admirably with the level gaze of her dark and quiet eye.A strong, serene, physical nature, and the placid temper which comesof no nerves and no troubles, seemed this lady's comfortable portion.She was dressed in plain dull black, save for a sort of dark bluekerchief which was folded across her bosom and exposed a glimpse ofher massive throat. Over this kerchief was suspended a little silvercross. I admired her greatly, and yet with a large reserve. Acertain mild intellectual apathy belonged properly to her type ofbeauty, and had always seemed to round and enrich it; but thisbourgeoise Egeria, if I viewed her right, betrayed a rather vulgarstagnation of mind. There might have been once a dim spiritual lightin her face; but it had long since begun to wane. And furthermore,in plain prose, she was growing stout. My disappointment amountedvery nearly to complete disenchantment when Theobald, as if tofacilitate my covert inspection, declaring that the lamp was verydim, and that she would ruin her eyes without more light, rose andfetched a couple of candles from the mantelpiece, which he placedlighted on the table. In this brighter illumination I perceived thatour hostess was decidedly an elderly woman. She was neither haggard,nor worn, nor gray; she was simply coarse. The "soul" which Theobaldhad promised seemed scarcely worth making such a point of; it was nodeeper mystery than a sort of matronly mildness of lip and brow. Ishould have been ready even to declare that that sanctified bend ofthe head was nothing more than the trick of a person constantlyworking at embroidery. It occurred to me even that it was a trick ofa less innocent sort; for, in spite of the mellow quietude of herwits, this stately needlewoman dropped a hint that she took thesituation rather less seriously than her friend. When he rose tolight the candles she looked across at me with a quick, intelligentsmile, and tapped her forehead with her forefinger; then, as from asudden feeling of compassionate loyalty to poor Theobald, I preserveda blank face, she gave a little shrug and resumed her work.

What was the relation of this singular couple? Was he the mostardent of friends or the most reverent of lovers? Did she regard himas an eccentric swain, whose benevolent admiration of her beauty shewas not ill pleased to humour at this small cost of having him climbinto her little parlour and gossip of summer nights? With her decentand sombre dress, her simple gravity, and that fine piece of priestlyneedlework, she looked like some pious lay-member of a sisterhood,living by special permission outside her convent walls. Or was shemaintained here aloft by her friend in comfortable leisure, so thathe might have before him the perfect, eternal type, uncorrupted anduntarnished by the struggle for existence? Her shapely hands, Iobserved, wore very fair and white; they lacked the traces of what iscalled honest toil.

"And the pictures, how do they come on?" she asked of Theobald, aftera long pause.

"Finely, finely! I have here a friend whose sympathy andencouragement give me new faith and ardour."

Our hostess turned to me, gazed at me a moment rather inscrutably,and then tapping her forehead with the gesture she had used a minutebefore, "He has a magnificent genius!" she said, with perfectgravity.

"I am inclined to think so," I answered, with a smile.

"Eh, why do you smile?" she cried. "If you doubt it, you must seethe bambino!" And she took the lamp and conducted me to the otherside of the room, where on the wall, in a plain black frame, hung alarge drawing in red chalk. Beneath it was fastened a little howlfor holy water. The drawing represented a very young child, entirelynaked, half nestling back against his mother's gown, but with his twolittle arms outstretched, as if in the act of benediction. It wasexecuted with singular freedom and power, and yet seemed vivid withthe sacred bloom of infancy. A sort of dimpled elegance and grace,mingled with its boldness, recalled the touch of Correggio. "That'swhat he can do!" said my hostess. "It's the blessed little boy whomI lost. It's his very image, and the Signor Teobaldo gave it me as agift. He has given me many things besides!"

I looked at the picture for some time and admired it immensely.Turning back to Theobald I assured him that if it were hung among thedrawings in the Uffizi and labelled with a glorious name it wouldhold its own. My praise seemed to give him extreme pleasure; hepressed my hands, and his eyes filled with tears. It moved himapparently with the desire to expatiate on the history of thedrawing, for he rose and made his adieux to our companion, kissingher band with the same mild ardour as before. It occurred to me thatthe offer of a similar piece of gallantry on my own part might helpme to know what manner of woman she was. When she perceived myintention she withdrew her hand, dropped her eyes solemnly, and mademe a severe curtsey. Theobald took my arm and led me rapidly intothe street.

"And what do you think of the divine Serafina?" he cried withfervour.

"It is certainly an excellent style of good looks!" I answered.

He eyed me an instant askance, and then seemed hurried along by thecurrent of remembrance. "You should have seen the mother and thechild together, seen them as I first saw them--the mother with herhead draped in a shawl, a divine trouble in her face, and the bambinopressed to her bosom. You would have said, I think, that Raphael hadfound his match in common chance. I was coming in, one summer night,from a long walk in the country, when I met this apparition at thecity gate. The woman held out her hand. I hardly knew whether tosay, 'What do you want?' or to fall down and worship. She asked fora little money. I saw that she was beautiful and pale; she mighthave stepped out of the stable of Bethlehem! I gave her money andhelped her on her way into the town. I had guessed her story. She,too, was a maiden mother, and she had been turned out into the worldin her shame. I felt in all my pulses that here was my subjectmarvellously realised. I felt like one of the old monkish artistswho had had a vision. I rescued the poor creatures, cherished them,watched them as I would have done some precious work of art, somelovely fragment of fresco discovered in a mouldering cloister. In amonth--as if to deepen and sanctify the sadness and sweetness of itall--the poor little child died. When she felt that he was going sheheld him up to me for ten minutes, and I made that sketch. You saw afeverish haste in it, I suppose; I wanted to spare the poor littlemortal the pain of his position. After that I doubly valued themother. She is the simplest, sweetest, most natural creature thatever bloomed in this brave old land of Italy. She lives in thememory of her child, in her gratitude for the scanty kindness I havebeen able to show her, and in her simple religion! She is not evenconscious of her beauty; my admiration has never made her vain.Heaven knows that I have made no secret of it. You must haveobserved the singular transparency of her expression, the lovelymodesty of her glance. And was there ever such a truly virginalbrow, such a natural classic elegance in the wave of the hair and thearch of the forehead? I have studied her; I may say I know her. Ihave absorbed her little by little; my mind is stamped and imbued,and I have determined now to clinch the impression; I shall at lastinvite her to sit for me!"

"'At last--at last'?" I repeated, in much amazement. "Do you meanthat she has never done so yet?"

"I have not really had--a--a sitting," said Theobald, speaking veryslowly. "I have taken notes, you know; I have got my grandfundamental impression. That's the great thing! But I have notactually had her as a model, posed and draped and lighted, before myeasel."

What had become for the moment of my perception and my tact I am at aloss to say; in their absence I was unable to repress a headlongexclamation. I was destined to regret it. We had stopped at aturning, beneath a lamp. "My poor friend," I exclaimed, laying myhand on his shoulder, "you have DAWDLED! She's an old, old woman--for a Madonna!"

It was as if I had brutally struck him; I shall never forget thelong, slow, almost ghastly look of pain, with which he answered me.

"Dawdled?--old, old?" he stammered. "Are you joking?"

"Why, my dear fellow, I suppose you don't take her for a woman oftwenty?"

He drew a long breath and leaned against a house, looking at me withquestioning, protesting, reproachful eyes. At last, startingforward, and grasping my arm--"Answer me solemnly: does she seem toyou truly old? Is she wrinkled, is she faded, am I blind?"

Then at last I understood the immensity of his illusion how, one byone, the noiseless years had ebbed away and left him brooding incharmed inaction, for ever preparing for a work for ever deferred.It seemed to me almost a kindness now to tell him the plain truth."I should be sorry to say you are blind," I answered, "but I thinkyou are deceived. You have lost time in effortless contemplation.Your friend was once young and fresh and virginal; but, I protest,that was some years ago. Still, she has de beaux restes. By allmeans make her sit for you!" I broke down; his face was too horriblyreproachful.

He took off his hat and stood passing his handkerchief mechanicallyover his forehead. "De beaux restes? I thank you for sparing me theplain English. I must make up my Madonna out of de beaux restes!What a masterpiece she will be! Old--old! Old--old!" he murmured.

"Never mind her age," I cried, revolted at what I had done, "nevermind my impression of her! You have your memory, your notes, yourgenius. Finish your picture in a month. I pronounce it beforehand amasterpiece, and I hereby offer you for it any sum you may choose toask."

He stared, but he seemed scarcely to understand me. "Old--old!" hekept stupidly repeating. "If she is old, what am I? If her beautyhas faded, where--where is my strength? Has life been a dream? HaveI worshipped too long--have I loved too well?" The charm, in truth,was broken. That the chord of illusion should have snapped at mylight accidental touch showed how it had been weakened by excessivetension. The poor fellow's sense of wasted time, of vanishedopportunity, seemed to roll in upon his soul in waves of darkness.He suddenly dropped his head and burst into tears.

I led him homeward with all possible tenderness, but I attemptedneither to check his grief, to restore his equanimity, nor to unsaythe hard truth. When we reached my hotel I tried to induce him tocome so.

"We will drink a glass of wine," I said, smiling, "to the completionof the Madonna."

With a violent effort he held up his head, mused for a moment with aformidably sombre frown, and then giving me his hand, "I will finishit," he cried, "in a month! No, in a fortnight! After all, I haveit HERE!" And he tapped his forehead. "Of course she's old! Shecan afford to have it said of her--a woman who has made twenty yearspass like a twelvemonth! Old--old! Why, sir, she shall be eternal!"

I wished to see him safely to his own door, but he waved me back andwalked away with an air of resolution, whistling and swinging hiscane. I waited a moment, and then followed him at a distance, andsaw him proceed to cross the Santa Trinita Bridge. When he reachedthe middle he suddenly paused, as if his strength had deserted him,and leaned upon the parapet gazing over into the river. I wascareful to keep him in sight; I confess that I passed ten verynervous minutes. He recovered himself at last, and went his way,slowly and with hanging head.

That I had really startled poor Theobald into a bolder use of hislong-garnered stores of knowledge and taste, into the vulgar effortand hazard of production, seemed at first reason enough for hiscontinued silence and absence; but as day followed day without hiseither calling or sending me a line, and without my meeting him inhis customary haunts, in the galleries, in the Chapel at San Lorenzo,or strolling between the Arno side and the great hedge-screen ofverdure which, along the drive of the Cascine, throws the fairoccupants of barouche and phaeton into such becoming relief--as formore than a week I got neither tidings nor sight of him, I began tofear that I had fatally offended him, and that, instead of giving awholesome impetus to his talent, I had brutally paralysed it. I hada wretched suspicion that I had made him ill. My stay at Florencewas drawing to a close, and it was important that, before resuming myjourney, I should assure myself of the truth. Theobald, to the last,had kept his lodging a mystery, and I was altogether at a loss whereto look for him. The simplest course was to make inquiry of thebeauty of the Mercato Vecchio, and I confess that unsatisfiedcuriosity as to the lady herself counselled it as well. Perhaps Ihad done her injustice, and she was as immortally fresh and fair asbe conceived her. I was, at any rate, anxious to behold once morethe ripe enchantress who had made twenty years pass as a twelvemonth.I repaired accordingly, one morning, to her abode, climbed theinterminable staircase, and reached her door. It stood ajar, and asI hesitated whether to enter, a little serving-maid came clatteringout with an empty kettle, as if she had just performed some savouryerrand. The inner door, too, was open; so I crossed the littlevestibule and entered the room in which I had formerly been received.It had not its evening aspect. The table, or one end of it, wasspread for a late breakfast, and before it sat a gentleman--anindividual, at least, of the male sex--doing execution upon abeefsteak and onions, and a bottle of wine. At his elbow, infriendly proximity, was placed the lady of the house. Her attitude,as I entered, was not that of an enchantress. With one hand she heldin her lap a plate of smoking maccaroni; with the other she hadlifted high in air one of the pendulous filaments of this succulentcompound, and was in the act of slipping it gently down her throat.On the uncovered end of the table, facing her companion, were rangedhalf a dozen small statuettes, of some snuff- coloured substanceresembling terra-cotta. He, brandishing his knife with ardour, wasapparently descanting on their merits.

Evidently I darkened the door. My hostess dropped liner maccaroni--into her mouth, and rose hastily with a harsh exclamation and aflushed face. I immediately perceived that the Signora Serafina'ssecret was even better worth knowing than I had supposed, and thatthe way to learn it was to take it for granted. I summoned my bestItalian, I smiled and bowed and apologised for my intrusion; and in amoment, whether or no I had dispelled the lady's irritation, I had atleast stimulated her prudence. I was welcome, she said; I must takea seat. This was another friend of hers--also an artist, shedeclared with a smile which was almost amiable. Her companion wipedhis moustache and bowed with great civility. I saw at a glance thathe was equal to the situation. He was presumably the author of thestatuettes on the table, and he knew a money-spending forestiere whenhe saw one. He was a small wiry man, with a clever, impudent,tossed-up nose, a sharp little black eye, and waxed ends to hismoustache. On the side of his head he wore jauntily a little crimsonvelvet smoking-cap, and I observed that his feet were encased inbrilliant slippers. On Serafina's remarking with dignity that I wasthe friend of Mr. Theobald, he broke out into that fantastic Frenchof which certain Italians are so insistently lavish, and declaredwith fervour that Mr. Theobald was a magnificent genius.

"I am sure I don't know," I answered with a shrug. "If you are in aposition to affirm it, you have the advantage of me. I have seennothing from his hand but the bambino yonder, which certainly isfine."

He declared that the bambino was a masterpiece, a pure Corregio. Itwas only a pity, he added with a knowing laugh, that the sketch hadnot been made on some good bit of honeycombed old panel. The statelySerafina hereupon protested that Mr. Theobald was the soul of honour,and that he would never lend himself to a deceit. "I am not a judgeof genius," she said, "and I know nothing of pictures. I am but apoor simple widow; but I know that the Signor Teobaldo has the heartof an angel and the virtue of a saint. He is my benefactor," sheadded sententiously. The after-glow of the somewhat sinister flushwith which she had greeted me still lingered in her cheek, andperhaps did not favour her beauty; I could not but fancy it a wisecustom of Theobald's to visit her only by candle-light. She wascoarse, and her pour adorer was a poet.

"I have the greatest esteem for him," I said; "it is for this reasonthat I have been uneasy at not seeing him for ten days. Have youseen him? Is he perhaps ill?"

"Ill! Heaven forbid!" cried Serafina, with genuine vehemence.

Her companion uttered a rapid expletive, and reproached her with nothaving been to see him. She hesitated a moment; then she simperedthe least bit and bridled. "He comes to see me--without reproach!But it would not be the same for me to go to him, though, indeed, youmay almost call him a man of holy life."

"He has the greatest admiration for you," I said. "He would havebeen honoured by your visit."

She looked at me a moment sharply. "More admiration than you. Admitthat!" Of course I protested with all the eloquence at my command,and my mysterious hostess then confessed that she had taken no fancyto me on my former visit, and that, Theobald not having returned, shebelieved I had poisoned his mind against her. "It would be nokindness to the poor gentleman, I can tell you that," she said. "Hehas come to see me every evening for years. It's a long friendship!No one knows him as well as I."

"I don't pretend to know him or to understand him," I said. "He's amystery! Nevertheless, he seems to me a little--" And I touched myforehead and waved my hand in the air.

Serafina glanced at her companion a moment, as if for inspiration.He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders as he filled hisglass again. The padrona hereupon gave me a more softly insinuatingsmile than would have seemed likely to bloom on so candid a brow."It's for that that I love him!" she said. "The world has so littlekindness for such persons. It laughs at them, and despises them, andcheats them. He is too good for this wicked life! It's his fancythat he finds a little Paradise up here in my poor apartment. If hethinks so, how can I help it? He has a strange belief--really, Iought to he ashamed to tell you--that I resemble the Blessed Virgin:Heaven forgive me! I let him think what he pleases, so long as itmakes him happy. He was very kind to me once, and I am not one thatforgets a favour. So I receive him every evening civilly, and askafter his health, and let him look at me on this side and that! Forthat matter, I may say it without vanity, I was worth looking atonce! And he's not always amusing, poor man! He sits sometimes foran hour without speaking a word, or else he talks away, withoutstopping, on art and nature, and beauty and duty, and fifty finethings that are all so much Latin to me. I beg you to understandthat he has never said a word to me that I mightn't decently listento. He may be a little cracked, but he's one of the blessed saints."

"Eh!" cried the man, "the blessed saints were all a little cracked!"

Serafina, I fancied, left part of her story untold; but she toldenough of it to make poor Theobald's own statement seem intenselypathetic in its exalted simplicity. "It's a strange fortune,certainly," she went on, "to have such a friend as this dear man--afriend who is less than a lover and more than a friend." I glancedat her companion, who preserved an impenetrable smile, twisted theend of his moustache, and disposed of a copious mouthful. Was HEless than a lover? "But what will you have?" Serafina pursued. "Inthis hard world one must not ask too many questions; one must takewhat comes and keep what one gets. I have kept my good friend fortwenty years, and I do hope that, at this time of day, signore, youhave not come to turn him against me!"

I assured her that I had no such design, and that I should vastlyregret disturbing Mr. Theobald's habits or convictions. On thecontrary, I was alarmed about him, and I should immediately go insearch of him. She gave me his address, and a florid account of hersufferings at his non-appearance. She had not been to him forvarious reasons; chiefly because she was afraid of displeasing him,as he had always made such a mystery of his home. "You might havesent this gentleman!" I ventured to suggest.

I was about to withdraw, after having promised that I would informthe Signora Serafina of my friend's condition, when her companion,who had risen from table and girded his loins apparently for theonset, grasped me gently by the arm, and led me before the row ofstatuettes. "I perceive by your conversation, signore, that you area patron of the arts. Allow me to request your honourable attentionfor these modest products of my own ingenuity. They are brand-new,fresh from my atelier, and have never been exhibited in public. Ihave brought them here to receive the verdict of this dear lady, whois a good critic, for all she may pretend to the contrary. I am theinventor of this peculiar style of statuette--of subject, manner,material, everything. Touch them, I pray you; handle them freely--you needn't fear. Delicate as they look, it is impossible theyshould break! My various creations have met with great success.They are especially admired by Americans. I have sent them all overEurope--to London, Paris, Vienna! You may have observed some littlespecimens in Paris, on the Boulevard, in a shop of which theyconstitute the specialty. There is always a crowd about the window.They form a very pleasing ornament for the mantel-shelf of a gayyoung bachelor, for the boudoir of a pretty woman. You couldn't makea prettier present to a person with whom you wished to exchange aharmless joke. It is not classic art, signore, of course; but,between ourselves, isn't classic art sometimes rather a bore?Caricature, burlesque, la charge, as the French say, has hithertobeen confined to paper, to the pen and pencil. Now, it has been myinspiration to introduce it into statuary. For this purpose I haveinvented a peculiar plastic compound which you will permit me not todivulge. That's my secret, signore! It's as light, you perceive, ascork, and yet as firm as alabaster! I frankly confess that I reallypride myself as much on this little stroke of chemical ingenuity asupon the other element of novelty in my creations--my types. What doyou say to my types, signore? The idea is bold; does it strike youas happy? Cats and monkeys--monkeys and cats--all human life isthere! Human life, of course, I mean, viewed with the eye of thesatirist! To combine sculpture and satire, signore, has been myunprecedented ambition. I flatter myself that I have not egregiouslyfailed."

As this jaunty Juvenal of the chimney-piece delivered himself of hispersuasive allocution, he took up his little groups successively fromthe table, held them aloft, turned them about, rapped them with hisknuckles, and gazed at them lovingly, with his head on one side.They consisted each of a cat and a monkey, fantastically draped, insome preposterously sentimental conjunction. They exhibited acertain sameness of motive, and illustrated chiefly the differentphases of what, in delicate terms, may be called gallantry andcoquetry; but they were strikingly clever and expressive, and were atonce very perfect cats and monkeys and very natural men and women. Iconfess, however, that they failed to amuse me. I was doubtless notin a mood to enjoy them, for they seemed to me peculiarly cynical andvulgar. Their imitative felicity was revolting. As I looked askanceat the complacent little artist, brandishing them between finger andthumb and caressing them with an amorous eye, he seemed to me himselflittle more than an exceptionally intelligent ape. I mustered anadmiring grin, however, and he blew another blast. "My figures arestudied from life! I have a little menagerie of monkeys whosefrolics I contemplate by the hour. As for the cats, one has only tolook out of one's back window! Since I have begun to examine theseexpressive little brutes, I have made many profound observations.Speaking, signore, to a man of imagination, I may say that my littledesigns are not without a philosophy of their own. Truly, I don'tknow whether the cats and monkeys imitate us, or whether it's we whoimitate them." I congratulated him on his philosophy, and heresumed: "You will do use the honour to admit that I have handled mysubjects with delicacy. Eh, it was needed, signore! I have beenfree, but not too free--eh? Just a hint, you know! You may see asmuch or as little as you please. These little groups, however, areno measure of my invention. If you will favour me with a call at mystudio, I think that you will admit that my combinations are reallyinfinite. I likewise execute figures to command. You have perhapssome little motive--the fruit of your philosophy of life, signore--which you would like to have interpreted. I can promise to work itup to your satisfaction; it shall be as malicious as you please!Allow me to present you with my card, and to remind you that myprices are moderate. Only sixty francs for a little group like that.My statuettes are as durable as bronze--aere perennius, signore--and,between ourselves, I think they are more amusing!"

As I pocketed his card I glanced at Madonna Serafina, wonderingwhether she had an eye for contrasts. She had picked up one of thelittle couples and was tenderly dusting it with a feather broom.

What I had just seen and heard had so deepened my compassionateinterest in my deluded friend that I took a summary leave, making myway directly to the house designated by this remarkable woman. Itwas in an obscure corner of the opposite side of the town, andpresented a sombre and squalid appearance. An old woman in thedoorway, on my inquiring for Theobald, ushered me in with a mumbledblessing and an expression of relief at the poor gentleman having afriend. His lodging seemed to consist of a single room at the top ofthe house. On getting no answer to my knock, I opened the door,supposing that he was absent, so that it gave me a certain shock tofind him sitting there helpless and dumb. He was seated near thesingle window, facing an easel which supported a large canvas. On myentering he looked up at me blankly, without changing his position,which was that of absolute lassitude and dejection, his arms looselyfolded, his legs stretched before him, his head hanging on hisbreast. Advancing into the room I perceived that his face vividlycorresponded with his attitude. He was pale, haggard, and unshaven,and his dull and sunken eye gazed at me without a spark ofrecognition. I had been afraid that he would greet me with fiercereproaches, as the cruelly officious patron who had turned hiscontentment to bitterness, and I was relieved to find that myappearance awakened no visible resentment. "Don't you know me?" Iasked, as I put out my hand. "Have you already forgotten me?"

He made no response, kept his position stupidly, and left me staringabout the room. It spoke most plaintively for itself. Shabby,sordid, naked, it contained, beyond the wretched bed, but thescantiest provision for personal comfort. It was bedroom at once andstudio--a grim ghost of a studio. A few dusty casts and prints onthe walls, three or four old canvases turned face inward, and arusty-looking colour-box, formed, with the easel at the window, thesum of its appurtenances. The place savoured horribly of poverty.Its only wealth was the picture on the easel, presumably the famousMadonna. Averted as this was from the door, I was unable to see itsface; but at last, sickened by the vacant misery of the spot, Ipassed behind Theobald, eagerly and tenderly. I can hardly say thatI was surprised at what I found--a canvas that was a mere dead blank,cracked and discoloured by time. This was his immortal work! Thoughnot surprised, I confess I was powerfully moved, and I think that forfive minutes I could not have trusted myself to speak. At last mysilent nearness affected him; he stirred and turned, and then roseand looked at me with a slowly kindling eye. I murmured some kindineffective nothings about his being ill and needing advice and care,but he seemed absorbed in the effort to recall distinctly what hadlast passed between us. "You were right," he said, with a pitifulsmile, "I am a dawdler! I am a failure! I shall do nothing more inthis world. You opened my eyes; and, though the truth is bitter, Ibear you no grudge. Amen! I have been sitting here for a week, faceto face with the truth, with the past, with my weakness and povertyand nullity. I shall never touch a brush! I believe I have neithereaten nor slept. Look at that canvas!" he went on, as I relieved myemotion in an urgent request that he would come home with me anddine. "That was to have contained my masterpiece! Isn't it apromising foundation? The elements of it are all HERE. And hetapped his forehead with that mystic confidence which had marked thegesture before. "If I could only transpose them into some brain thathas the hand, the will! Since I have been sitting here taking stockof my intellects, I have come to believe that I have the material fora hundred masterpieces. But my hand is paralysed now, and they willnever be painted. I never began! I waited and waited to be worthierto begin, and wasted my life in preparation. While I fancied mycreation was growing it was dying. I have taken it all too hard!Michael Angelo didn't, when he went at the Lorenzo! He did his bestat a venture, and his venture is immortal. THAT'S mine!" And hepointed with a gesture I shall never forget at the empty canvas. "Isuppose we are a genus by ourselves in the providential scheme--wetalents that can't act, that can't do nor dare! We take it out intalk, in plans and promises, in study, in visions! But our visions,let me tell you," he cried, with a toss of his head, "have a way ofbeing brilliant, and a man has not lived in vain who has seen thethings I have seen! Of course you will not believe in them when thatbit of worm-eaten cloth is all I have to show for them; but toconvince you, to enchant and astound the world, I need only the handof Raphael. His brain I already have. A pity, you will say, that Ihaven't his modesty! Ah, let me boast and babble now; it's all Ihave left! I am the half of a genius! Where in the wide world is myother half? Lodged perhaps in the vulgar soul, the cunning, readyfingers of some dull copyist or some trivial artisan, who turns outby the dozen his easy prodigies of touch! But it's not for me tosneer at him; he at least does something. He's not a dawdler! Wellfor me if I had been vulgar and clever and reckless, if I could haveshut my eyes and taken my leap."

What to say to the poor fellow, what to do for him, seemed hard todetermine; I chiefly felt that I must break the spell of his presentinaction, and remove him from the haunted atmosphere of the littleroom it was such a cruel irony to call a studio. I cannot say Ipersuaded him to come out with me; he simply suffered himself to beled, and when we began to walk in the open air I was able toappreciate his pitifully weakened condition. Nevertheless, he seemedin a certain way to revive, and murmured at last that he should liketo go to the Pitti Gallery. I shall never forget our melancholystroll through those gorgeous halls, every picture on whose wallsseemed, even to my own sympathetic vision, to glow with a sort ofinsolent renewal of strength and lustre. The eyes and lips of thegreat portraits appeared to smile in ineffable scorn of the dejectedpretender who had dreamed of competing with their triumphant authors;the celestial candour, even, of the Madonna of the Chair, as wepaused in perfect silence before her, was tinged with the sinisterirony of the women of Leonardo. Perfect silence, indeed, marked ourwhole progress--the silence of a deep farewell; for I felt in all mypulses, as Theobald, leaning on my arm, dragged one heavy foot afterthe other, that he was looking his last. When we came out he was soexhausted that instead of taking him to my hotel to dine, I called acarriage and drove him straight to his own poor lodging. He had sunkinto an extraordinary lethargy; he lay back in the carriage, with hiseyes closed, as pale as death, his faint breathing interrupted atintervals by a sudden gasp, like a smothered sob or a vain attempt tospeak. With the help of the old woman who had admitted me before,and who emerged from a dark back court, I contrived to lead him upthe long steep staircase and lay him on his wretched bed. To her Igave him in charge, while I prepared in all haste to seek aphysician. But she followed me out of the room with a pitifulclasping of her hands.

"Poor, dear, blessed gentleman," she murmured; "is he dying?"

"Possibly. How long has he been thus?"

"Since a certain night he passed ten days ago. I came up in themorning to make his poor bed, and found him sitting up in his clothesbefore that great canvas he keeps there. Poor, dear, strange man, hesays his prayers to it! He had not been to bed, nor since then,properly! What has happened to him? Has he found out about theSerafina?" she whispered, with a glittering eye and a toothless grin.

"Prove at least that one old woman can be faithful," I said, "andwatch him well till I come back." My return was delayed, through theabsence of the English physician, who was away on a round of visits,and whom I vainly pursued from house to house before I overtook him.I brought him to Theobald's bedside none too soon. A violent feverhad seized our patient, and the case was evidently grave. A coupleof hours later I knew that he had brain fever. From this moment Iwas with him constantly; but I am far from wishing to describe hisillness. Excessively painful to witness, it was happily brief. Lifeburned out in delirium. One night in particular that I passed at hispillow, listening to his wild snatches of regret, of aspiration, ofrapture and awe at the phantasmal pictures with which his brainseemed to swarm, comes back to my memory now like some stray pagefrom a lost masterpiece of tragedy. Before a week was over we hadburied him in the little Protestant cemetery on the way to Fiesole.The Signora Serafina, whom I had caused to be informed of hisillness, had come in person, I was told, to inquire about itsprogress; but she was absent from his funeral, which was attended bybut a scanty concourse of mourners. Half a dozen old Florentinesojourners, in spite of the prolonged estrangement which had precededhis death, had felt the kindly impulse to honour his grave. Amongthem was my friend Mrs. Coventry, whom I found, on my departure,waiting in her carriage at the gate of the cemetery.

"Well," she said, relieving at last with a significant smile thesolemnity of our immediate greeting, "and the great Madonna? Haveyou seen her, after all?"

"I have seen her," I said; "she is mine--by bequest. But I shallnever show her to you."

"And why not, pray?"

"My dear Mrs. Coventry, you would not understand her!"

"Upon my word, you are polite."

"Excuse me; I am sad and vexed and bitter." And with reprehensiblerudeness I marched away. I was excessively impatient to leaveFlorence; my friend's dark spirit seemed diffused through all things.I had packed my trunk to start for Rome that night, and meanwhile, tobeguile my unrest, I aimlessly paced the streets. Chance led me atlast to the church of San Lorenzo. Remembering poor Theobald'sphrase about Michael Angelo--"He did his best at a venture"--I wentin and turned my steps to the chapel of the tombs. Viewing insadness the sadness of its immortal treasures, I fancied, while Istood there, that they needed no ampler commentary than these simplewords. As I passed through the church again to leave it, a woman,turning away from one of the side altars, met me face to face. Theblack shawl depending from her head draped picturesquely the handsomevisage of Madonna Serafina. She stopped as she recognised me, and Isaw that she wished to speak. Her eye was bright, and her amplebosom heaved in a way that seemed to portend a certain sharpness ofreproach. But the expression of my own face, apparently, drew thesting from her resentment, and she addressed me in a tone in whichbitterness was tempered by a sort of dogged resignation. "I know itwas you, now, that separated us," she said. "It was a pity he everbrought you to see me! Of course, you couldn't think of me as hedid. Well, the Lord gave him, the Lord has taken him. I have justpaid for a nine days' mass for his soul. And I can tell you this,signore--I never deceived him. Who put it into his head that I wasmade to live on holy thoughts and fine phrases? It was his ownfancy, and it pleased him to think so.--Did he suffer much?" sheadded more softly, after a pause.

"His sufferings were great, but they were short."

"And did he speak of me?" She had hesitated and dropped her eyes;she raised them with her question, and revealed in their sombrestillness a gleam of feminine confidence which, for the moment,revived and illumined her beauty. Poor Theobald! Whatever name hehad given his passion, it was still her fine eyes that had charmedhim.

"Be contented, madam," I answered, gravely.

She dropped her eyes again and was silent. Then exhaling a full richsigh, as she gathered her shawl together--"He was a magnificentgenius!"

I bowed, and we separated.

Passing through a narrow side street on my way back to my hotel, Iperceived above a doorway a sign which it seemed to me I had readbefore. I suddenly remembered that it was identical with thesuperscription of a card that I had carried for an hour in mywaistcoat pocket. On the threshold stood the ingenious artist whoseclaims to public favour were thus distinctly signalised, smoking apipe in the evening air, and giving the finishing polish with a bitof rag to one of his inimitable "combinations." I caught theexpressive curl of a couple of tails. He recognised me, removed hislittle red cap with a most obsequious bow, and motioned me to enterhis studio. I returned his salute and passed on, vexed with theapparition. For a week afterwards, whenever I was seized among theruins of triumphant Rome with some peculiarly poignant memory ofTheobald's transcendent illusions and deplorable failure, I seemed tohear a fantastic, impertinent murmur, "Cats and monkeys, monkeys andcats; all human life there!"